The Complications of Simplicity
by zookitty
Summary: A simple salt and burn...yeah right. Winchesters defined complicated. Equal opportunity whump ensues.


**AN:** I sat down today and wrote this story from beginning to end...pretty shocked myself, but some days things just roll. Anyway enjoy!

Setting: Mid season 1

Major thanks to the amazing Morgan for her awesome betaing skills that make my stories nice and shiney

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It always amazed Sam how simple things could become incredibly complicated. Like ordering Chinese take-out, when the waiter only speaks Spanish. Or splurging on the more comfortable beds at a bed and breakfast only to have your concussed brother wake up and start screaming that the floral bedspread was attacking him. Or telling your girlfriend what it was your father did for a living.

Or even a _simple _salt and burn.

Sam shuddered against the cold and thrust his shovel back into the dirt. They were about six feet deep, and expecting the familiar thunk of metal against pine any minute.

Except it didn't come.

"What the heck, dude!" Dean turned to him. The younger Winchester could only shrug. The tomb stone clearly read "Here lies Gregory Tait" which non-coincidentally was the name of the latest contestant on the Winchester survival show. It was easy enough. This was the graveyard he was buried in. The header had his name. It shouldn't have been a problem, but of course there was the little matter of there not actually _being _a casket in the grave.

Glowering, Dean pulled himself out of the hole. It was a moment before Sam joined him. The younger brother pulled out his cell phone and made a few quick inquiries.

"Well, here's something they never released to the press. Mr. Tait's body was never found," Sam sighed, putting his phone back in his pocket.

"So, what…they just put up a tombstone over an empty plot?" Dean asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Looks like. Guess the family was to poor too afford more than that," the younger offered.

"No bones."

"No bones."

"So what do we burn?"

"Well…we could look for the body," Sam put forth hesitantly.

"You know where it is?"

"I know where it could be. This was over half a century ago, Dean, I don't think they put forth a lot of effort looking for him," the younger commented. Gregory was a black man and the law system was far from fair at the time. "But they always thought he was in the swamp." The glare Dean gave him could have withered most anybody, but of course little brothers are generally immune to such things.

"Peachy," he muttered, pulling himself up and heading in the direction of the mire. Sam grabbed his duffle off the ground and followed after.

The walked for nearly ten minutes, the silence only interrupted by an occasional curse as Dean got assaulted by blood suckers of the small winged verity.

"I hate swamps," the older said, walking to the edge of the mud and algae infested muck.

"Yeah me too," Sam returned. Dean trudged into the swamp, sludge gripping at his army boots like cold hands clinging to him. It was not at all a pleasant feeling. He used the shovel to feel around under the opaque surface, wondering just how Sam thought they would possibly find anything. He was about to say as much when he glanced back at the bank and saw his brother buried in their father's journal.

"Dude, seriously get in here and help!" he snapped.

"One second," Sam muttered absently, without so much as a glance. Dean threw the shovel down with a growl and trudged toward his brother. He was tired, he was hungry, dirty and frustrated.

And Sam was not helping matters.

"Get to work now!" he yelled, frayed nerves snapping. Sam's head snapped up then, shock turned to defiance on his face. Which was what made Dean realize how much like his Dad he had just sounded.

"I'm looking something up," the younger replied, his words deliberate and level.

"Yeah, so am I. The body," Dean retorted, "so if you're done…might wanna start helping out?"

"I found a ward we can use to get rid of the spirit without the body," Sam answered, his words chipped. The older Winchester deflated.

"Oh." He looked down at the mire, and continued apologetically, "what do we need?"

"We need to bless the swamp water," the younger spoke, his tone softer also. "Since it's not a very strong spirit that might be enough."

"Holy sludge?" Dean smirked.

"Just to be sure, I'm going to use some of the wards Missouri gave us…it might help," Sam suggested, pulling the crucifix from the pages of John's journal were it was wound and tossing it to his brother. Dean caught it and began the water—or in this case mud—cleansing ritual, as the familiar sounds of Latin started up behind him.

It was just starting to seem like this would be easy after all…until their friendly neighborhood ghost showed up. As Sam put it, he wasn't a very strong ghoul.

But he was strong enough.

Dean felt himself go flying back into the mire, landing with a disgusting slurp as the mud accepted his weight. The ghost was on top of him then, a malicious smile on its pale lips. A salt round exploded in its face, dispersing the spirit. Dean tried to pull himself up only to find he had another predicament.

He was completely and fully stuck. He heard Sam scream out, heard another salt round get shot, heard an unearthly wail that sent shivers done his spine; all the while he fought with the sludge surrounding him. Pulling with all his might to get free only to sink further.

Then everything went quiet.

"Sammy!" he screamed, fighting to at least maneuver his head enough to see what was happening. His heart pounded as the silence was drug out.

"Dean." It was a weak pant, but it was the best thing Dean had ever heard. He heard the slush of tennis shoes slapping against the mud and coming toward him, the thunk as his brother landed on his knee beside him. Sam's face hovered over his vision. There was a steadily forming bruise barely visible under his bangs and a open gash across his chin, but he was ok. Relief washed over him.

"Get me out of here," he said readily, pushing up again. Sam grabbed his shoulder and pulled with all his strength as the mire slowly loosened around him. Their joint strength managed to get Dean sitting up, he stretched his muscles gingerly and began working his legs out of the mire.

It was only then he smelled the smoke.

His eyes snapped up to the tree at the edge of the swamp, which was now completely ablaze.

"The ward didn't work right," Sam replied with a shrug. "But the ghost is gone…so I guess it could have been worse."

"How could this possibly get worse!" Dean grumbled, his hand motions erratic and angry. That was when it started to rain. A little trickle at first, then it almost instantly began to pour. The brothers met each other's eyes.

And Sam laughed.

A light and pure laugh that Dean hadn't heard in ages, and the older hunter found a smile tugging at his lips. There they stood covered in mud and blood, and the Winchester brothers laughed in the rain.


End file.
